Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling who we all know is the creator of Harry Potter and William Shakespeare, I don't own anything of his either. Anything you don't recognize belongs to me.

Note: This chapter has the use of alcohol but all the characters that are drinking are of age.

Chapter 1: Liquid Courage (Firewhiskey Fridays)

The night started innocently enough. It was their unsaid monthly ritual ever since the war ended to meet the first Friday of the month and a have a 'mans night.' Of course they weren't really men. Ronald Weasley still had his Mum give him warm milk right before bed. Mrs. Weasley was constantly coddling Harry Potter as well. Neville Longbottom…well, his Gran had been treating him like an infant ever since he was an infant. Yes, the only 'man' at the table was Dean Thomas and that really wasn't saying much.

"Go fish."

"Have any fours?"

"Twenty-one!"

"We're playing poker," Harry grumbled.

He glared at the three that surrounded him and then shook his head with amusement. Ron, Dean and Neville all shared a look and then placed their cards on the wooden table. They weren't exactly experts at playing Muggle card games. Dean normally played well but he had had several drinks, they all had, and it was messing with their heads.

Harry's glare didn't affect them. In fact the three burst out laughing and started making jokes about the scar on his forehead.

"Oi!" Harry shouted, placing his cards on the table and taking a sip from his cup. "You're all terrible mates. I'm going to…I'm going—" He hiccupped as he tried to think of what he was going to do but he couldn't concentrate as their laughter filled his ears.

"Do what?" Neville questioned, a silly grin plastered on his face. "Pop on by the Malfoy's? You can have tea parties with Draco—" he taunted, Harry turned a bright shade of red.

Harry groaned and slid in his chair. He removed his spectacles, throwing them haphazardly on the table and pointed a finger at Neville. Of course it wasn't actually Neville who he was pointing at. He was looking at him but shaking an angry finger at Dean. After his fifth drink he kept mistaking Dean for Ron and kept calling Neville 'Seamus.'

"Seamus," he said, licking his lips. They were dry and cracking but they tasted like firewhiskey. "Don't make me…don't make me do something…" he said. He couldn't continue his sentence.

Next to him, Ron patted Harry's back soothingly. He was the only one that was remotely sober, having the least amount of drinks, a measly three, but Weasley's couldn't exactly hold their liquor all that well either. His face was bright red and his eyes slightly glassy as he rubbed Harry's back trying to shush him.

"Calm down Harry. Try and sober up would you? Ginny will have my head if you come home stumbling and mumbling again. Almost put her hair on fire last time," Ron mumbled.

He wanted to add Harry acted like a blubbering idiot whenever alcohol induced and always told Ron how much he loved him. It was rather uncomfortable for Ron unless he drank more than five drinks.

Harry swatted Ron's hand away from his face, burped and then grinned. "In my defense Dean," he said, poking Ron's nose, "she deserved it."

It wasn't really funny but the four laughed anyway.

"Where is Seamus anyway?" asked Neville who was also trying to balance a playing card on his nose.

"Stuck with the old ball and chain!" Dean answered with a grin. He was trying to drink and talk at the same time so firewhiskey dribbled down his dark chin and stained his red shirt. He looked down at his chest with bewilderment, forgetting the conversation he was having.

"Pathetic!" Ron muttered after Dean's response.

"Hey!" Neville shouted, holding up his glass. "He's the one that sent us the drinks. What were we doing before we were drinking anyway?"

It was a good question and they all paused to rack their brains to try and remember. None of them could which only made them all break out in laughter again. The sloppy laughter filled the kitchen and found its way through the house of Augusta Longbottom who was trying unsuccessfully to sleep.

Harry stretched—or was that Dean? Neville tried to remember if Dean was the one with the scar on his forehead. He was…right? Well, Neville yawned and grabbed a sweet off of the table that was littered with bottles and wrappings.

Randomly, Ron blinked, his blue eyes becoming slightly clearer and he swiped at the sweet Neville grabbed and angrily stared at him.

"You…you need to tell her how you feel!" he shouted out of nowhere. His voice was suddenly filled with anger and the other three jumped at the loud decibel and glanced at Ron with terrified faces.

"Do it! Do it! Do it!" Harry yelled, banging his fists on the table.

Dean crinkled his nose and scratched his chin, "Tell who what?"

Neville took it upon himself to answer Dean's question. "I like Hannah," he confessed.

Harry responded with a squeal, Ron responded with a burp and Dean's brown eyes scanned the room they were in forgetting where and why he was there.

"I like Hannah Abbot," Neville said with a pitiful moan. He let his head drop on the wooden table and groaned at the pain he now felt. "I will not succumb to peer pressure!" he shouted, picking his head up and throwing his hand in the air.

It was only Ron that remembered the conversation they were having. Harry was staring at Augusta's china cabinet while Dean was examining the wall.

"Stop being a pansy Neville and tell her how you feel. Come on!" said Ron, who was starting to sober up.

Neville sighed and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. "What do I even say? Hannah, will you go on a date with me? That sounds about right," he said with a hopeful smile.

He shakily removed his quill from his trouser pocket and 'accioed' ink and some parchment. He began to quickly scratch away (Harry wondered with fascination where the sound was coming from while Dean put his eyes on the china cabinet, convinced that the butterfly plates were moving).

"No!" Ron shouted. He snatched the feathered quill from Neville's hand and shook his head. "Are you mental? She'll read that and it'll put her to sleep. You need to be fancy."

"Tell her she has a nice bum," Harry said, rejoining the conversation. His head felt funny and he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes trying to bring some clarity back to him. He wasn't sure what they were talking about but Harry was convinced everyone had a nice bum in general.

"Oi! You've been checking out Hannah's bum?" Neville questioned with horror.

Harry turned a shade of red and pouted. "It's a free bum! It hasn't been claimed yet."

"You're dating my sister Harry!" said Ron; he elbowed Harry next to him.

Harry, being rather bony, winced and angrily glared at Ron and then blinked.

"Who's Harry?" asked Harry.

"I'm Harry," responded Dean.

Ron shook his head. Idiots surrounded him. "Come on Neville…let's see…use that ancient language, you know, the one your Gran spoke when she was born," he suggested.

Neville scrunched up his nose as if he had just smelled something terribly vile and stared at Ron incredulously. "Are you calling my Gran old?"

"Well," Harry muttered under his breath, "if the vulture hat fits."

"Harry!" yelled Neville with anger.

"What?" Dean shouted, perplexed.

"I'm Harry!" shouted Harry.

"I'm Dean!" shouted Dean. The two stared at each other wondering if they were indeed getting their names right.

Neville ignored them and put all his focus on Ron instead. He squinted his eyes, examining Ron's red hair and red face and puckered his lips. He wasn't entirely sure if he was indeed looking at Ron or a very bloated Ginny Weasley.

"I don't know any ancient language. Whaddaya mean anyway?" slurred Neville.

Ron sighed and scratched his chin as if in deep thought. Actually he really had to burp but it just wouldn't come out. "Err…Hermione reads to me. Some Shakey bloke. Write this…hello Hannah."

Neville glared at Ron and went to snatch the green feathery quill from him but missed and instead hit Ron's shoulder, he howled from pain dramatically, which caused Dean and Harry to roll their eyes.

"That's English!" shouted Neville.

"No, that's Spanish!" shouted Harry with a triumphant look on his face. He was just glad he finally understood the conversation that was going on around him.

"You know Spanish?" questioned Dean with bewilderment.

Ron shook his head and smacked a freckled hand to his chest. "I know Spanish?" he shouted with glee. "I thought I was speaking English! I'm so bilingual."

Dean shook his head, wondering why he surrounded himself with such idiots. He swiped at the spit that was on his face with the back of his hand and darted his eyes nervously to make sure no one was looking while he wiped the spit on his orange t-shirt and then took a quick swig from his cup before saying, "No, it's American. Howdy folks."

Neville glared at him and went to swipe at Dean's head but missed and somehow ended up poking himself in the eye. After much laughter from the three, Neville blinked at Dean with rosy red cheeks and tutted.

"Shut-up," he said with a scowl.

"Write this," Ron commanded, "how now Hannah?"

"How now brown cow?" Harry mumbled with a laugh.

"Are you calling Hannah a cow?" Neville asked with confusion.

Still, he listened to Ron and snatched the quill from his hand, scratching away on the parchment, 'How now Hannah?' It didn't make much sense to Neville but at that moment nothing really did.

"That's perfect," Ron said with a slight hiccup. "How now brown cow? You wench, I desire your company at…at where?" he asked the others around him.

Harry paused and then proceeded to burp. Dean's brown eyes were slowly closing and he was leaning dangerously towards the left, threatening to fall right out of his chair.

"Dinner," Neville declared with triumph. "These things tend to happen at dinner."

"Right you are Neville!" Ron said with a grin. Neville squinted his eyes and stared at Ron with confusion.

"I didn't say anything," he muttered, giving him a look. Ron nodded. In reality he wasn't hearing too well, he couldn't understand what Neville was saying to him. His eyes kept drooping and he heard an incessant buzzing in his ears.

"Oh, right. Anyway, I desire ye company at dinner. Methinks ye are a voluptuous wench. I shall ravish you. Anon, Neville."

Neville paused, dropped the quill on the parchment and leaned back in his wooden chair to soak in what Ron had just said to him. It felt rather romantic in his mind and he patted his stomach, the feeling of butterflies fluttering inside of it made him smile (really it was just indigestion).

"Anon, Neville…what does anon even mean?" Harry asked, rubbing his lightning bolt scar. He was sure it was something terribly evil and was surprised when he didn't feel a prick of pain in his forehead.

"It's a loving term," Ron explained quickly. "Harry, I anon you!"

Harry scoffed and crossed his arms against his chest angrily. "That's not a loving term! That's ridiculous. You're all ridiculous…anon…anon…"

He didn't want to admit that it did tickle his fancy after all. A big grin appeared on Harry's face and he blushed as he took a sip from his cup. Ron continued to tell him he 'anoned' him, much to Harry's pleasure.

"Alright then!" Neville shouted, he quickly scribbled some words on the parchment. "Anon it is, unless you've got any better ideas?"

"Don't sign it Neville!" Dean shouted, jumping out of his mini-slumber. "Sign it Sneville, it has a nice ring to it."

"Sneville? Sounds familiar…alright then…" He made a line through Neville and wrote 'Sneville' next to it with a small smile on his face.

It didn't look too bad to him; it was good penmanship and everything. He heard the female population liked good penmanship from their male counterparts.

"Send it off! Send it off! Send it off!" Ron shouted, banging his fist on the table.

Harry and Dean followed with their own banging and stomping, which caused Neville to shakily rise from his chair and wobble out of the kitchen in search of his Gran's brown owl. He came back five minutes later, shirt rumpled as if he had fallen and his left shoe missing making it much harder for him to walk.

As he took his seat once again at the wooden round table the other three boys sighed and silently looked at each other with their cups in their hands.

"What were we doing again?" Dean asked with a slight yawn.

Harry responded by letting his head drop on the table and Ron groaned.

"I'm not entirely sure," answered Neville. "I'm tired."

"Ugh," Ron said, scrunching up his nose. "Harry's falling asleep in the dip bowl again. I really don't want his hair in my mouth again."

Sure enough, Harry Potter was snoring lightly with cheese dip coating his messy hair.

"That's bloody romantic. You're both so romantic. Merlin, I'm jealous," Neville admitted with a sad sigh.

His alcohol-induced state was starting to wear off. The after effects always hit him hard. He usually became moody and angry. Sometimes he admitted embarrassing things about himself (he liked to tell himself he was sexy in the mirror every morning as he got dressed) while others were just plain weird (he had a thing about counting eyelashes).

"Of what? Our friendship? Don't worry I anon the both of you," Ron said with a slight yawn as he tried to pick up Harry's head.

"Anon? What does that mean?" asked Dean.

"I think I'm having déjà vu," muttered Neville. He blinked a few times, trying to concentrate and recall a conversation that had to deal with the word 'anon.'

"Crap," said Dean with a groan. "I thought we were playing poker. I haven't heard of this déjà vu game before. Is it like blackjack?"

Before anyone could answer, Harry lifted his head up from the dip bowl. His normally green eyes were now slightly red and it hindered his already poor vision.

"I'm leaving before I splinch myself and Ginny has an attack. I anon you all," he said with a quick crack.

"Seriously? What does anon mean?" asked Ron. "Why does it sound so romantic? You don't think Harry has a thing for me now, do you?" He eyed the empty seat that Harry had been sitting in and sniffed the air around him with distaste as if Harry was still there. "You search for Horcruxes with him one time and he just latches on."

Neville ignored him, lost in his own world. "I really like Hannah. I do. I don't know what to do anymore. I feel like every time I see her my heart is going to burst out of my chest—"

"That sounds really painful," Dean said sadly. He patted Neville on the back gently and sighed at the thought of his heart bursting from his chest.

"You should go to a Healer and get that checked out. Do you eat a lot of red meat?" Ron asked, eyeing Neville's chest.

"Her eyes remind me of gravy and her hair of spaghetti—"

Ron grumbled. "I'm hungry. Do you have any noodles? Ooo, dip…uh, why is there hair in this?"

Dean thought for a moment and snapped his fingers as the answer came to him. "It's a new kind! It's supposed to make you thin."

"I just don't know how to approach her. You know? I go up to her and I start talking about cabbages and man eating spiders—"

Ron shrieked and jumped out of his chair with cheese dip on his fingers. "SPIDERS! WHERE?"

Dean's brown eyes opened wide and he too jumped out of his chair and pointed a shaking finger to the dip. "In the dip! The spiders are in the dip!"

Neville continued as if the two weren't even there and mumbled to himself. "Some awful nonsense about Gran and how she killed the vulture herself and stuffed him for her hat. I think Hannah might be scared of me actually. Tends to shiver a bit whenever I'm around. I think she has some sort of shaky bone disease. Our children will have a shaky bone disease—"

Ron paused and then dropped to his seat with shock. "You have a child? Congratulations! Can I be the godfather? Ooo, this is really excellent dip."

"I just want to take her by the shoulders and shake her. I want to shout it out in front of the whole world. I like Hannah Abbot!" Neville declared with vigor.

"What's with all the shouting!" A voice yelled from another room. The three jumped and stared at each other, wondering if there was a ghost nearby.

"Where is that voice coming from? Mum? Is that you?" Ron shouted back. It didn't dawn on him that he wasn't actually at the Burrow but was indeed making a ruckus in Augusta Longbottom's kitchen.

Dean blanched, staring at Ron. "Your Mum is here? Why didn't you tell me? She hates me! I'm leaving before she gets down here." With a loud crack he was gone and Ron stared at Dean's empty seat with horror.

"Whoa, he just disappeared right before my eyes. It was like magic!"

"I'm going to die alone," Neville said sullenly. "HANNAH ABBOT! WHY DON'T YOU LIKE ME?"

"Neville? Neville, what is this shouting?"

"I wonder," Ron said, shaking in his seat. "If I can do magic too!" He scrunched up his nose and counted to three, squeezing every muscle in his body before he disappeared with a loud pop.

A second later, Augusta Longbottom appeared in the kitchen with a look of concern etched on her old tired face and a fluffy robe covering her magenta colored nightdress.

"Neville? What's going on—oh, Neville," she whispered sadly as she noticed her grandson who was sitting alone at the wooden table, nursing a half filled cup. "You and your friends were drinking again. What am I going to do with you all? Come to bed Neville."

Neville looked at his grandmother, noticing her for the first time. His eyes were filled with tears and he sighed, as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "Gran?" he whispered. "I'm going to die alone Gran. What's the point?"

She stopped herself from scoffing and instead shook her head and then ruffled his hair lovingly with her hand.

"Oh Neville, you're going to find a sweet girl once you sober up. A very sweet one that will make sure Harry Potter doesn't bring any alcohol into the house. Come on Neville, up to bed."

Neville yawned and dropped his head to the table. Muttering quietly, "I think…she smells like…nachos…bed…anon…"

He fell asleep with his head on the table. Augusta shook her head with silent fury. Sure she was used to this, it only happened when the boys met for their monthly night together. Their conversations were idiotic and at first made her chuckle but Neville was always left alone with a small sadness in the pit of his stomach that she could never fill. She kissed her grandson's forehead and whispered a sweet 'good night', then walked back to her bedroom, her old bones aching with each step.

She didn't have that many years left. As much as she liked to think she was a strong woman her time would soon come. She knew that and she hoped before it did the lump in her kitchen who was drooling on her dining table would find someone to take care of him.

As she laid her head on her pillow sleep quickly overtook her. In the kitchen a dull brown owl swooped in through the open window and dropped a rolled up piece of parchment next to Neville Longbottom's mouth. The owl pecked his face and Neville sleepily swatted it away. He jumped after realizing the thing pecking him was indeed alive. Alert, he smacked some of the owl's feathers, his tired eyes falling on the parchment. Groggily, he opened the letter and blinked several times as the owl pecked his hand with annoyance.

Neville,

Come by the Leaky around five. We can get something then.

Anon,

Hannah

Neville stared at the words with confusion and brushed the letter aside. He dropped his head back to the cold wooden table and his snores filled the kitchen. It would take him only ten minutes after he woke up to realize what the letter meant, the events of boys night hitting him like bludger to the head.

Ron Weasley was so dead.

Author's Note: Ah! A Neville and Hannah short story. I'm actually really excited about this. I wasn't going to post this up yet but I wanted to see what everyone thought. This is going to be a short story. Emphasis on short. It'll only be around five chapters long. Don't forget to review to let me know what you think!